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- Herausgeber: Springer Berlin
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
Dolls of Death by Max Afford is a spine-tingling mystery that plunges readers into a world of eerie dolls and murderous intent. When a series of brutal killings is linked to a collection of sinister, lifelike dolls, a determined detective must unravel the chilling connection before the killer strikes again. As the investigation deepens, dark secrets from the past emerge, and the line between the living and the dead begins to blur. With danger lurking in every shadow, can the truth be uncovered in time, or will the next victim fall prey to the Dolls of Death? This unnerving and atmospheric thriller will keep you guessing to the very end.
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Seitenzahl: 267
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
Dolls of Death
CHAPTER ONE. THE RIDDLE OF THE MARIONETTES
CHAPTER TWO. QUEER ATTITUDE OF MR. ROGER ROCHESTER
CHAPTER THREE. AB INTRA
CHAPTER FOUR. INQUISITION
CHAPTER FIVE. DEATH MOVES AT MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER SIX. CAMILLA WARD IS CONTRITE
CHAPTER SEVEN. ZIGEUNER!
CHAPTER EIGHT. THE HORROR IN THE HOUSE OF GOD
CHAPTER NINE. FOURTH APPEARANCE OF A POPPET
CHAPTER TEN. BEHOLD THE FOUL FIEND!
CHAPTER ELEVEN. DAWN AFTER BLACK SABBATH
CHAPTER TWELVE. TAIL-PIECE
Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
Dolls of Death
Being a sober account of certain diabolical happenings, not untinged with the odour of Brimstone, which befell a respectable family living at Exmoor in this present year.
Max Afford
***
CHAPTER ONE. THE RIDDLE OF THE MARIONETTES
(Saturday, March 6th)
1
Jeffery Blackburn became embroiled in the strange affair of the Rochester family by sheer chance. For some years, since he had relinquished the Chair of Higher Mathematics at Greymaster University in favour of the more fascinating pastime of criminology, Jeffery had used the gracious and well-appointed rooms at the Akimbo whenever he journeyed to London from his cottage on the gorse-covered slopes of Thursby village. On this particular occasion he had made the journey to visit his friend, William Jamison Read, Chief Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard.
But he was destined not to see his friend. Read had, a week previously, taken charge of a murder case at Hartlepool, and there was little chance of his return for some days at least. Whereupon Jeffery turned his footsteps in the direction of the Akimbo, where he could plan his next move amid comfortable surroundings.
Blackburn was not in the least surprised to find Rollo Morgan in the lounge. They shook hands, and Jeffery, pulling up a chair, ordered drinks.
"Must be close on two years since I saw you," he remarked, lighting a cigarette. "What have you been doing all the time?"
Rollo made a grimace. "Stewing in a study all day," he complained. He patted his waist-line regretfully. "I'm getting fat as a pig on it, too. Round of golf twice a week and an occasional game of tennis is the only exercise I get. Except on a typewriter—I get hours of that!" He paused and glanced at his companion. "I'm a private secretary, you know."
"I didn't. Who are you working for?"
"Old Professor Rochester."
Blackburn's tone conveyed surprise. "Not old Cornelius Rochester, the demonology student?"
Rollo nodded. "That's the chappie."
"Do you like it?" Blackburn asked casually.
His companion shrugged. "It's a job," he returned. "I suppose I should be thankful, especially when there are ten thousand chappies with much better qualifications than mine hunting feverishly through the Want Ads. every morning. But don't get the idea that my work's anything of a sinecure. The patrician nose is kept pretty close to the grindstone, I assure you!"
Blackburn blew a smoke-ring. "The patrician nose appears to be very far from the grindstone at the moment," he observed mildly.
Rollo Morgan did not reply for a moment. He drained his glass and lit a cigarette. Over the match-flame, his eyes were sombre.
"Work's been postponed for a while," he said quietly. "There's been a death in the family—and the old man's rather upset about it. It was his sister, Beatrice. She was an invalid and pretty close to the Prof." He shrugged. "As a matter of fact, I've taken the chance to get a few days off. The place-well—it rather depresses me..." His voice tailed off.
"Something's on your mind, Rollo. What is it?"
For just a moment the other hesitated. Then he crushed his cigarette in the ash-tray and began fiddling with the ashes, brushing them into small heaps. He did not look up as he spoke.
"Blackburn, what would you say if I told you that not two hundred miles from London there'd been a recrudescence of medieval witchcraft?"
"I'll reserve comment until I hear more," the other said calmly. He beckoned an attendant and gave an order. When fresh drinks were brought, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
"Go on," he invited.
2
"Rochester House," Morgan began, "is situated in a lonely valley on the borders of Exmoor, where all the fogs in the world seem to roll up from the Bristol Channel.
"The greatest drawback to Rochester House—from the younger people's viewpoint—is its isolated state. The house itself is placed half-way down the valley. It runs to three storeys and is topped by a square tower, battlemented and giving the house a rather medieval appearance. On the flat roof of this tower, which serves as a landmark, there's a telescope, a windmill, a rain gauge that not only measures the fall but indicates when it starts and stops, and a glass arrangement for focusing the heat of the sun."
"Sounds rather like a miniature observatory," observed Jeffery.
"And looks like one," Rollo agreed. "It seems that the former owner was cranky on reading the stars, and it was he who fixed these instruments on the roof. The Rochesters have been in possession about ten years now, I believe. Cornelius took it because of the isolated position.
"Now for the family.
"The head of the house is old Cornelius. He moves from his library to his study, venturing out of doors only when his daughter drags him there by the coat-tails. The Prof. used to leave everything to his sister, Beatrice. She was a woman about fifty, a spinster. Nil nisi bonum and all that," muttered Rollo; "but I must admit that Aunt Beatrice had a bitter tongue, and an almost uncanny faculty of prying into other people's business. She was crippled with rheumatism and could walk only with a crutch. Yet she was amazingly agile and could get around the house as fast as any of us. She managed the business affairs, handled all finances, paid the bills, and acted as parent, housekeeper, and general adviser to the household.
"There are three children. The eldest is Roger, close on forty. Remember the White Knight in 'Alice?' There's Roger! Shaggy hair turning grey, gentle face, and large mild eyes. Always vague and living in a world of his own.
"Then," he continued, "comes the youngest son, Owen Rochester, in his early thirties. Owen is at the opposite end of the pole to Roger, an athletic, husky young man who considers his father's studies as just so much morbid nonsense. Owen spent five years on his uncle's ranch in Montana, where he learned to spin a rope and toss the knife and all that kind of thing. He stays at 'Rochester' only because he can use the slopes for a gallop every morning. His sister, Jan, is the youngest child. Twenty-three years old, pretty as they come, and with an amazingly good headpiece from the intelligence point of view also.
"There are, however, three guests staying at 'Rochester' at the moment. One is a journalist chappie, Phillip Barrett. Then, about three weeks ago, Jan invited two friends down to stay. A young doctor, Brian Austin, and his fiancée, Camilla Ward. They're a bright couple and it does Jan good to get some people of her own age about her.
"Of course there are servants. Five of them. There's Michael Prater, the butler-cum-manservant-cum-valet, an old relic who's been in the family for years. He must be almost as old as the Prof. Prater is assisted by Bianca Considine, who acts as housemaid and general girl. A regular gypsy beauty, is Bianca. Smooth black hair, dark eyes in an olive skin, and a mouth that looks as though it is freshly painted every hour, only it isn't! Her mother, old Hannah, who supervises the kitchen, sees to that. Old Hannah is a real type. I believe that Corney picked her up in Transylvania during one of his trips abroad and brought her back with her daughter, Bianca. She's heavy-featured and has a nasty habit of peering at you from dark corners and muttering to herself in some foreign lingo. Then there is a hired couple who come from the village. They attend to the furnaces and the electric light plant and the garden."
Rollo Morgan paused and stretched for his pipe. He began to thumb it with tobacco. When it was lit and drawing to his satisfaction, he took up the story again.
"Now, about twelve months ago, a German professor friend of Cornelius presented him with a rather unusual gift. He was a man whose hobby was wood-carving and he had been staying at Rochester House. During that time he amused himself by fashioning a number of dolls from soft pine-wood, each being a replica in miniature of a member of the house. There were six of these mannikins in the set—models of the Professor, Beatrice, Roger, Owen, Jan, and Prater. At the end of his stay the guest presented the dolls to Rochester, who placed them in a box in his study and forgot all about the business. About three months ago, when Jan opened the drawer, the box had disappeared. A search followed and the servants were questioned. Each denied touching or even seeing the mannikins.
"Last Tuesday week Prater came in just before the luncheon bell sounded. We were all gathered in the living-room, the Prof., Roger, Beatrice, Owen, Jan, and myself. Miss Ward and Austin were coming in later, I remember. Anyhow, there we were waiting when the butler came in. There were letters for everyone except Roger—who has very few acquaintances and no close friends, as far as I know—and a parcel for Beatrice. They were passed round, and we were deep in our correspondence when we heard Beatrice give a little snort of indignation. Then she snapped, 'What fool's trick is this?' and we looked up to see the lady peering into a small box.
"She tilted it up for us to see inside. And there, lying among some white tissue paper, was Beatrice's doll! I can tell you that there was something mighty unpleasant about that little figure, so much like its original, lying stiff and white in its bed of paper. Then Jan looked round at us. 'What's the idea? Who's the practical joker?' But if any of the household had sent that doll to Beatrice, they certainly weren't going to admit it. So Jan accused Owen, but he vowed he'd nothing to do with it.
"It was an ordinary wooden box about the size of those used for cigars. It was wrapped in coarse brown paper with the address printed upon it. The postmark showed it had been lodged in Rockwall. Whereupon Jan accused Owen again, for he had just returned from the village. But Owen got rather annoyed, and the whole thing was bordering on a family row when Roger intervened and calmed them down. We went in to luncheon, and by mutual and unspoken agreement the matter was dropped...
"Until last Friday night," Morgan said impressively, and his tone was weighted. "Until last Friday night, when Beatrice, coming down to dinner with Roger, slipped and fell at the bend of the stairs. When we picked her up she was dead!"
"Ah!" It was not an ejaculation so much as a long-drawn breath of a word. Jeffery opened his eyes and sat upright. He looked at his companion. "Coincidence...?"
Rollo spread his hands.
"What do you think? I know nothing save the fact that I was working in the library. I heard a crash and rushed out. Beatrice was lying in a heap at the foot of the stairs. Roger was standing over her, bleating like a panic-stricken sheep, while Owen, Jan, and Dr. Austin were raising the dead woman. Roger said that Beatrice had moved down the stairs ahead of him, and that on the bend she stumbled and fell."
"What caused her death?" Jeffery inquired as the other paused. "Her heart?"
Morgan shook his head. "Her neck was broken," he said quietly, and was silent.
"And that's the end of the story?"
Rollo roused himself.
"Not quite." He seemed to be speaking with an effort. "I'll skip the gloomy details and make the remainder as brief as possible. The days following the burial of poor Beatrice were anything but pleasant. The guests were in a particularly awkward position. They were for leaving right away, but Jan persuaded them to stay—begged them almost, on the plea that friends in the house made the circumstances more bearable."
"The business of the doll was not considered?" Blackburn asked.
"No one, by so much as a suggestion, referred to it," Rollo answered. "Partly because the situation was unhappy enough already, but mainly, I think, because none of us had the courage to suggest that Beatrice's accident might be anything else but a mishap. And so, as the days passed, each morning brought a lessening of the tension among the household. Until last Tuesday, four days ago, when things were almost normal again. That is, until that Tuesday lunch-time, when Prater brought in the collection of mail from the village."
Jeffery made a sudden exclamation, but a gesture from Morgan stayed him.
"Yes," said that young man grimly. "I know exactly what you're going to say. Well, you're right! Among those letters was another parcel—addressed to Roger this time. When he opened it he found the doll of himself, packed in tissue paper. And through the back of the mannikin a thin sharp spike had been driven!"
3
"Most interesting," said Mr. Blackburn, nodding his head.
"Interesting!" Rollo's tone was shrill. "Is that all you call it? I call it damned disturbing! Or damned senseless. Who's at the bottom of this crazy charade?"
Blackburn considered for a moment. "And what does the gentle Roger feel about all this? Has he taken any steps to protect himself?"
"He's in a blue funk," Morgan confessed. "So much so that, against his father's wishes, he's got a private detective down from London to guard him. A man named Pimlott." The young man grimaced. "Came down on Wednesday last and follows Roger about like a shadow. Very officious and mysterious, but hasn't the brains of a rabbit. Still—there he is! And here I am!"
Jeffery grinned at his friend's expression.
"Cause and effect?"
Rollo nodded.
"Yes. Can't stand the fellow, myself. And the atmosphere of the house is rather turgid at the moment, so I came up to breathe some of the blessed petrol-laden London air. I'm staying here."
"But surely you did some poking around on your own?"
"I did," his companion admitted. A shadow crossing his face suggested that the recollection was not pleasant. He leaned forward. "The post-markings on those parcels, for instance. Aunt Beatrice's doll, as I said, was posted in Rockwall. But Roger's came from London. That was why we took it as a joke at first. Because the family and the guests had all been up here at various times during the previous few weeks. Owen and Jan, with Miss Ward and Brian Austin, motored up for a matinee only a few days before. Barrett often comes up on his journalistic business. So does the Professor. Even Roger dares the traffic on occasion. Yet they all denied sending the dolls, so much so that we came to the conclusion that it must be the work of some stranger." He glanced at the other's face. "Yet how could a stranger get hold of the dolls? And as there were no strangers in the house on the night of Beatrice's accident, there seems to be no connection."
"All of which brings us back to the suggestion of coincidence."
"Yes—perhaps. But remember this." Rollo's fingers drummed the arm of his chair. "You must admit that whoever is playing the joke (if joke it is) with these dolls, is possessed of a most perverted sense of humour to keep the thing going after the death of Beatrice. Under normal circumstances, the person, finding the trick had produced—coincidently or otherwise—such tragic results, would be only too keen to have everyone forget such an ill-timed joke. I can't understand why this person should want to carry on the business with Roger!"
"The explanation of that might lie in the fact that the person who sent the dolls, being in London, hasn't heard of Beatrice's death," Blackburn suggested. "He or she sent the second doll to Roger, still under the impression that it is all an innocent practical joke."
Morgan's face was puckered with bewilderment.
"Yes," he repeated. "But who's at the bottom of it all?" He leaned forward and his voice was as serious as Jeffery had ever heard it.
"You know I'm not superstitious, Jeff. But I can't help thinking that there's something monstrous and ugly behind all this. Don't ask me what—I haven't any idea! I'm convinced that there's more in this mannikin business than we dream of. I've felt it for days—ever since Beatrice's death." He raised his eyes to the other's face. "That's why I came up to town. To see you and persuade you to come down to 'Rochester.'"
Blackburn was surprised.
"But, you said—"
"Never mind what I said. I might as well make a clean breast of it. If I hadn't seen you here tonight, I would have sought you out at Thursby. I mean it, Jeff! I'm worried stiff. I simply had to see you and tell you about all this—and Persuade you to come back with me in the morning."
CHAPTER TWO. QUEER ATTITUDE OF MR. ROGER ROCHESTER
(Sunday, March 7th)
1
With a twist of the wheel Morgan steered the car around a muddy pot-hole in the road. As Jeffery predicted, they hummed through a weeping world. Some five miles out of London they had run into a thunderstorm. Pressing on, they passed through the worst of the downpour and emerged into a sad grey land that stretched, even as Rollo had said, into infinity.
"'The dumb sky rhinoceros glum,'" quoted Jeffery, feeling for his cigarette-case. "It takes a day like this to impress one with the Sitwells' originality of words and colour—"
"There's 'Rochester,'" interrupted Morgan shortly. And he pressed his foot on the accelerator.
Built of some dark stone, it rose out of the valley like a stranded ship carried far inland. The mansion was gaunt, four-square, and ugly, with harsh lines emphasized rather than concealed by the drooping mantel of ivy that matted the house. The tower rose up sharply like a stocky warning finger, and on the serrated top Blackburn could see the collection of meteorological instruments his friend had spoken about.
At the side of the house was a smaller building of weathered stone, with pointed roof and walls heavily buttressed. He gestured towards it.
"What's that?"
"The chapel," Morgan told him. "Cornelius holds family prayers in there every Sunday morning. The Prof. is rather too theological—he studied for the Church before taking up his present work. The chapel's quite a feature of 'Rochester'. Has central heating and all modern accessories."
"Central heating?"
"Yes. Sounds unconventional in this lonely spot, doesn't it? It was more for Beatrice's comfort than anything else. She was intensely devotional and used to spend hours in the chapel. So her brother had the heating system extended from the house and it can he turned on inside the chapel itself. Makes Sunday morning prayers almost a physical pleasure."
"And does everyone attend these—er—devotions?"
"Everyone excepting Roger," Morgan said. "He's a self-confessed agnostic. Personally, I think he's too lazy to walk the distance between the house and the chapel."
"And the staff?"
"Prater attends. But Bianca and her mother are not forced to go. The Girt couple join up when they're on duty here. And, of course, the guests are naturally expected to fall in with the old man's wishes." Rollo grinned, a trifle wryly. "You'll probably get your own introduction to the chapel this morning."
Blackburn was stretching his neck. "There's another low building adjoining it," he said presently. "I can just see something that looks like a door—"
"That's the family vault." The other's tone was curt.
Jeffery nodded slowly. The drive towards the house continued in silence. Rollo manipulated the wheel and the tyres bumped on to a macadam track which led to the front of the house. As they approached, Jeffery saw that his glimpse of the garden had not given him a false impression. Desolation was everywhere. The front of the house alone showed signs of cultivation. Here was some semblance of flower-beds, and weedy gravelled paths wound off into the undergrowth. Urged by the thought of a long-delayed breakfast, he glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes after ten o'clock. At that moment the car pulled up before a deep porch with a scuffle of tyres.
"There's Jan waiting," said Rollo suddenly.
Stepping out of the car, Jeffery turned. She was dressed with attractive carelessness: a heavy knitted jumper and a two-piece Harris tweed suit. The two men walked across and Rollo, after introductions, left to garage the car. In the silence that followed his departure, Jan Rochester measured the young man with level eyes. She spoke quietly.
"I've heard of you, Mr. Blackburn. You're very clever."
Jeffery said drolly, "Now, what am Ito say to that?"
"Mr. Blackburn is down here merely on holiday, Miss Jan. It's better that way, seeing how touchy your father is about official investigation." put in Rollo.
Jeffery smiled and nodded.
"That's so. Rollo has told me the story of this mannikin business. But he hasn't convinced me that there's really anything serious to investigate as yet."
The dark fear in the girl's eyes flashed to the surface.
"I rather think there is," she said quietly. "Because Roger has disappeared!"
2
Morgan's eyes and mouth gaped wide. Blackburn, watching, could see a dozen questions trembling on his lips. But when the young man spoke it was merely a surprised, toneless echo:
"Disappeared?"
Jan Rochester nodded.
"So it would appear. No one seems to have set eyes on him since ten o'clock last night. He was in the drawing-room then. This morning, when he didn't come down to breakfast, I asked Michael to go to his room, thinking he'd probably overslept." She turned to Jeffery. "My brother had a touch of indigestion last night and sometimes takes sleeping tablets. Anyhow, Michael came back and reported that the bed hadn't been disturbed." Anxiety flamed afresh in her eyes. "Pimlott's raving about like a lunatic!"
"Why wasn't he watching Roger?" demanded Rollo. "That's why he's down here!"
"He wasn't keeping his eye on Roger because he was with me last night," Jan retorted. "We drove into the village. I wanted to make some purchases and Pimlott had to post some documents into his office. We took Dad's car and left here about eight o'clock."
"Was Roger here when you got back?"
"We didn't get back. Not until early this morning."
"What happened?" Morgan asked.
"Cloudburst," said Miss Rochester succinctly. "It came down just after we reached the village. We hung around until about eleven o'clock, when the storm began to slacken off. Just as we were starting out we ran into an A.A. man, who told us that the Moor road was two feet under water in the low-lying places. He said we'd never get through and warned us against trying. So we drove back to the hotel and stayed the night. We left early this morning and got back here about an hour ago."
Morgan frowned.
"I don't like the sound of this," he muttered. "Looks as if someone was just waiting until Pimlott turned his back. It's peculiar that the moment he takes his eyes off Roger this thing happens." He paused, to add rather unconvincingly, "I don't suppose your brother could have gone out for a walk?"
"Gone for a walk—in this?" The girl swept an arm at the grey sky and sodden moors. Her voice was sharp, almost irritable. "Don't be ridiculous, Rollo. Even Roger isn't quite as impossible as that!"
Jeffery interposed gently.
"I believe you mentioned, Miss Rochester, that your brother's bed had not been slept in? Doesn't that appear as though he went out last night and, like yourself, was prevented from returning by the storm?"
Jan shook her head.
"You don't know conditions here," she said. "My brother isn't likely to go out without letting us know, and even if that was to happen—where could he go? There's nothing between here and the village, and I can't imagine Roger walking eight miles on a stormy night. He rarely visits Rockwall, even by car. And if he didn't go to the village, where else would he be walking? Don't forget, my brother was a sick man last night. His indigestion was troubling him badly."
Morgan turned and stared out across the fog-veiled moors.
"He can't be out there! Consequently, he must be somewhere in the house. And if he's there, he's safe enough. Nothing could possibly happen to him inside 'Rochester!'"
Something coloured the girl's tone darkly as she replied:
"You told us that once before, Rollo. Only, it was Beatrice instead of Roger."
A silence damp as the trailing clouds fell upon the trio. It was broken by the sound of footsteps and a deep voice that called, "Who's that, Jan?" Then the speaker came out of the shadows of the hall—a curly-headed, fresh-complexioned young man with the solid build of a wrestler. He wore a bright sweater over a pair of grey-flannel trousers, and from his open-necked shirt rose a throat like the trunk of a young tree. He paused on seeing the stranger, and glanced quickly from Jan to Rollo Morgan, who stepped forward. He glanced at the girl. "Would you...?"
Miss Rochester said quietly, "This is my brother Owen, Mr. Blackburn."
The young man extended his hand. "Friend of Rollo's, eh?" he said cheerfully. "You'll find this a dull hole, I'm afraid. This weather's put the lid on any sport, although we might scrounge some grouse-shooting."
Blackburn's quick eye noticed a wrinkle form between the girl's brows.
"I wish you'd put some of your athletic energy into searching for Roger," she said, and turned to their guest. "You see, Mr. Blackburn, I'm the only person in the house who takes my brother's disappearance at all seriously."
"Rot!" said Owen shortly. "Just because we don't go rushing about letting our hair down all over the place, Sis thinks we're callous! It isn't that. Roger's such a wandering old sheep—he may turn up any moment and ask if his breakfast's been kept hot for him."
Jan shrugged her shoulders.
"Perhaps I am getting fussed over nothing," she admitted. "Anyhow, you'd better let Dad know your guest has arrived, Rollo. You'll find him in the study, I think."
"Good! Where are the others?"
"Still lingering over breakfast, I believe."
She nodded to Jeffery and turned away. Owen hesitated for a moment, then followed her. Sister and brother moved into the house, deep in a muttered conversation.
"This way," said Rollo.
The two men passed into the wide hall. Inside the light was dim and green—a misty, undersea radiance that filtered from an overcast sky. Jeffery had the impression of panelled walls and a generous hearth set at one end. A flight of stairs, set in the far corner of the hall, twisted to an upper landing, Rollo indicated this with a nod.
"That was where Beatrice fell," he said quietly.
Jeffery inclined his head without speaking. He stood looking about him. Up on the gallery the strange green twilight had deepened to gloom. He could perceive but dimly the far end of the landing, terminating in a high, narrow window with stained glass vivid even against the dull sky. The voice of Morgan recalled his attention. He turned to find his companion Beckoning towards a door set under the gallery.
"Cornelius' study," Rollo explained. He pushed open the door and glanced inside. "The Prof. doesn't seem to be here. Wait inside while I find him."
As Blackburn passed into the study the other turned away, and the sound of his departing footsteps echoed across the hall.
Professor Rochester's sanctum was little more than a cubbyhole containing the bare essentials. There was a littered writing-desk, an old-fashioned bureau, and three small straight-backed chairs. Books were everywhere. The walls were lined with the volumes. They overflowed into the room itself, piled in tottering heaps in the corners, spreading from desk to chairs to window-seat. Bindings of red and gold and calf and cloth, they drew Blackburn like a magnet, and walking across he examined the volumes, at first idly, then with growing interest.
"Who are you?"
He swung round. Standing in the study entrance was a stocky, sharp-featured little man. His eyes, magnified by a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, peered suspiciously into the room. At the same time his lower jaw moved rhythmically and tirelessly. This mechanical cud-chewing made no difficulty of speech, for the newcomer barked through moving jaws:
"What's your business here?"
Jeffery said mildly: "My name is Blackburn. I arrived this morning as a guest of Professor Rochester."
An expression of surprise crossed the other's face. He moved into the room with a jerky, sparrow-like strut. "Well, well!" he exclaimed. "Well, well!"
"Since I take it that you know my name." Jeffery said, "may I have a similar pleasure. Mr...?" He paused expectantly.
With the air of a conjurer producing a rabbit from a top-hat, the little man brought a card from his pocket. Jeffery took the slip of pasteboard, and slanting it towards the light, read:
TREVOR PIMLOTT
Argus Detective Agency
"Oh!" Blackburn nodded slowly. "So you're Trevor Pimlott?"
"In the flesh," admitted Mr. Pimlott, chewing. "In the flesh!"
3
They shook hands.
Blackburn, his tongue busy with polite trivialities, inspected his companion. Save for the air of pompous self-assurance that surrounded the private detective like an aura, there was little to criticize.
"I hear you've lost track of your man, Mr. Pimlott."
The private detective made a deprecatory gesture.
"Can't be in two places at once," he muttered. "I've been closer to him than his shadow for the past few days. And last night—the first time I leave him—this thing happens. I don't mind admitting that I'm worried."
Jeffery nodded sympathetically.
"When did you last see him?"
"When I left for the village last night." The frown that shadowed his face gave it an expression of childish petulance. "I naturally assumed he'd be safe for a few hours—never dreaming, of course, that we'd be kept away all night."
"He'll probably turn up safe and sound," Jeffery said cheerfully. "The family seem to think so, anyhow."
Pimlott was about to make another remark when the sound of footsteps came echoing along the hall. With a muttered word the detective excused himself and slipped out of the study. A few moments later Morgan entered, accompanied by another man. "This is Mr. Blackburn, Professor," he was saying.
Cornelius Rochester came forward and extended a white hand. He was tall and thin and stoop-shouldered, dressed in sombre, untidy clothes which emphasized his leanness. There was a scholar's unhealthy pallor about his complexion and the tired red-rimmed eyes were set in a face surmounted by an aureole of grey hair. It was a gentle, saintly-face, marred only by the mouth with its thin blue lips curved in a fretful droop. Jeffery was to have proof of this pettish weakness immediately.
